A Solitary Reaper Read online

  "Nothing. I won't ask you to testify in court."

  "You understand why I can't, Captain Savva? I'm not afraid but I have an elderly mother. If I'm embroiled in the Greek courts I may never be able to find a home. I have to think of her. I wouldn't mind if it was just me."

  Savva raised his hands in surrender. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

  Rami peeked at Shayma. "I've heard about you both. Word gets around the camp. You do a lot to help."

  "Shayma's mother was Syrian,” Savva replied.

  Rami smiled. "It explains why you speak Levantine Arabic."

  "It does," Shayma smiled.

  Rami stared at the floor. The room was silent apart from the distant sounds of girls playing football outside. Savva let the silence hold, let its comfort tug at Rami's memories. Shayma scooted to the edge of the floral sofa, strangling a cup of coffee in her hands. Opposite, Rami took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

  "We'd barely pushed off. We couldn't have been a mile or so from Turkey. The engine sputtered like a dying dog. Some of the men got out the oars and argued about how to row. The boat pitched back and forth, water in all our faces. Smoke was everywhere, like burning rubber. We coughed in the fumes. I heard a splash that sounded like someone had thrown the motor into the sea. 'Less weight' someone cried when someone else shouted he was an idiot. For so long all I could hear was the sound of oars dipping in and out of the water with muffled splashes. We were all shivering, and no one dared to speak.

  "It was as if our words weighed the raft down. There was an astronomer on our boat and he kept us on course. Out of the darkness, like it came from hell itself, a boat motor fired up. The wake hit us first. I thought we'd capsize. Everyone screamed. A paddle dropped into the water. Then lights. All around. Huge things that made you go blind. They shouted for the young women to jump from the boat and swim to theirs or everyone would die.

  "There were three girls on our boat. Sisters, I think. One of our men stood up, the boat keened; he damned them all to hell. They shot him. Just once. It went straight through his head with little spurts of red–like fireworks. He tumbled into the water. There was absolute silence. The girls stared at each other, the older one took their hands, and they jumped into the water. The boat still had its lights pointed in our eyes, but I could hear the rush of water, pouring off the girls' clothes, as they climbed aboard. The boat kept its lights on us until they were a good distance away. When they turned them off it was like being blind. We had to wait a good five minutes before anyone could see again.

  "No one spoke. It was too much. Too much after Aleppo. We couldn't find the man's body. He'd drifted out of sight. I can't forget it. The sound of the shot. The red fireworks. The water pouring off the girls as they were hoisted from the sea."

  Rami stopped. Light flooded Savva's eyes. The sea retreated. He was again back in the antiseptic room. Rami ran his hands over the tops of his thighs. Shayma's head was hidden by her hands.

  Savva took a deep breath, "Did you see the boat at all?"

  "No, just the lights."

  "When they spoke to you, what language was it?"

  "Arabic," Rami replied.

  "Levantine Arabic?"

  "No, not a dialect: formal Arabic."

  "Did he have an accent, this speaker?"

  "An accent?"

  "Was he a native speaker do you think?"

  Rami stared at Savva. "His pronunciation was weak and it sounded clipped like he'd rehearsed the words or learned them in school. I suppose he could have been Greek, but I don't know. He didn't sound like he was Syrian or Middle Eastern."

  Savva rose and extended his hand. "You've been helpful, Rami, thank you."

  Rami struggled out of his seat. "None of us asked for this." He gestured at the room. "Especially not those girls. Nor the man they shot."

  “No, they didn't."

  Savva shook Rami's hand and watched as Shayma embraced the young man. Rami left before they could give him a word of comfort. Savva put a hand on Shayma's shoulder and drew her to his chest, encircling her shaking shoulders. He held her as much for her as for himself, because the terror was real, the monsters were real, and, most of all, the lives were real.

  Two hours later the barbed wire topped gate opened for their silver Saab, and they drove through it, back to their home on Keas Street. Savva watched the road, but his mind was stuck on a pitching black sea with the dim lights of Lesvos off somewhere in the glorious distance of Europe.

  They'd conducted ten different interviews; some of them couples, some of them old men with wrinkled age-spotted hands, some of them like Rami–young men with bright pasts and dismal futures. It was much the same story. Sometimes a man was shot. Sometimes a woman. Sometimes it was close to the Turkish shore and sometimes it was in the middle of the sea. But it was always women who were taken, it was always in the dead of night with lights blinding them all, and it was always a man speaking–a man who wasn't a native Arabic speaker.

  By the end of the interviews, Savva was a shell. All the wanted was to escape to a bathroom and throw up and somehow also purge his mind of the words of these poor battered people. It was Shayma who had managed something heartfelt with all of them after they'd finish their stories. She'd patted their shoulders and thanked them for their help. But now she sat silent in the passenger's seat with dead eyes, staring out over the parched landscape. He reached over to grasp her hand, but she simply patted it twice before wrapping her arms around her chest. Savva stuck his hand into his pants pocket and switched off the tape recorder.

  * * *

  At the house, Savva watched as Shayma slumped inside before he walked down the street, scuffing his shoes on the pavement. He dialed Stelios.

  "How'd it go, Sir?"

  Savva nudged a pebble and shot it at a chink in the fence on his neighbor's property. Definitely a goal. "Fancy an ouzo?"

  "Your house?"

  "Hmm."

  "Be there in ten."

  Savva hung up and turned to face his home. It glowed orange in the blaze of the early-evening sun. He bit his lip and peeled off a piece of dead skin with his teeth. It was a bad habit–also a gross one as Shayma pointed out, and she didn't care that he'd picked up from his grandmother. But even she had to admit, on the whole it was better than using snuff, or smoking, or drinking. Somehow he'd managed to avoid those vices. Perhaps a bit of lip flagellation wasn't too bad, on the whole.

  A squeal echoed across the street and Savva walked to the corner where he peered around the crumbling stucco of the neighbor's garage. Down the street a football bounced off a black metal railing. A young girl's foot popped into view, she trapped the black and white ball between her ankle and thigh then popped it up into the air again, juggling it from knee to knee until the boys playing with her complained loudly. The game proceeded for a few more minutes before the players decided to head for the park down the road to work on their shooting accuracy.

  Savva walked back to the house and leaned against the boot of the Saab. Stelios appeared around the corner not five minutes later, arms swinging like pendulums at his sides. There was a circle of dirt on the knee of his blue trousers.

  Savva nodded at the dirt. "Got caught by the ball?"

  Stelios bent over and brushed the circle away. "A girl bet me I couldn't juggle it for an entire minute."

  "And did you?"

  Stelios smiled and dusted his hands off. "Sure if a minute constitutes about twenty seconds. It's been a while since I've played."

  Savva nodded. Stelios drew his hands over his chest. "About that ouzo, Sir?"

  He led Stelios inside the house and told him to wait in the back garden while he fetched the liquor. Shayma appeared in the kitchen while he was taking glasses down from the cupboard. She held a tray filled with the detritus of their guest's lunch. Savva nodded toward the garden. "Join us?"

  Shayma peered at him then reached around and grabbed another glass from the cabinet. They sat down opposite Stelios. Savva po
ured healthy measures for them all, added a few drops of water, and toasted his companions. Shayma played with the glass and stared blankly at the garden's stone wall. Savva rubbed his hands through his greying hair. Weariness settled in his bones like a weight. The thought of eventually getting up from the bench filled him with dread, much less telling Stelios the whole sad tale they heard at the camp.

  Shayma smacked her hand on the table, her eyes blazed. "We've got to do something."

  Savva placed his hand over hers. "We are."

  "Was it that bad?" Stelios whispered.

  "Worse," Shayma breathed.

  Savva put his arm around her shoulders. He turned to Stelios and waded into the story: the boat, the blinding lights, the order, the threat, the gunshot, the girls leaving the boat, the disappearance into the night. Stelios' face drained of color. He slouched until his elbows rested on the table and his hands cradled his head.

  "This wasn't a one-time thing," Savva plowed on, his voice brittle. "We listened to ten other stories that were exactly the same. There could be hundreds of others who haven't come forward or who have already passed through Lesvos and on to Europe."

  "But the voice, you think it's the same person every time?"

  "I think so. The descriptions match.

  Stelios shook his head. "What are we supposed to do? How are we supposed to catch these assholes? We don't have anything. Not even an identifying mark on the boat or the traffickers."

  "The lights," Savva said.

  "What about them?"

  "Their very existence: blind the refugees so they can't identify the boat or the traffickers. The lights exist and they're most likely attached to the vessel. That's something." Stelios peered at Savva between his fingers. "Women and girls are being kidnapped right off our coast. We have to stop it. We're the only ones who care."

  "We've got to find the root of the problem. Is it Goldstein?” Stelios mused.

  "It doesn't matter who it is, we need a way to decimate the operation so completely they're never able to work again." Savva curled his beard toward his lip. "Before Kleitos considers letting us set surveillance on Goldstein, he's going to want evidence. Ask Thanos to check the boats at the marina. If there's nothing in Mitilini, we need to look around the island. We'll figure out some excuse for him to be gone for a couple days."

  Stelios pulled a rectangular black notebook from his pocket and began to write. "What size are we looking for?"

  "It could be anything. We know it has an outboard motor. The most women they've taken at one time is five. Then you have whoever is steering the vessel, the shooter, and the person operating the lights. I think they hit one craft at a time, any more and they raise suspicion. Look for a craft which holds at least ten people with a reasonable size deck below."

  "Got it," Stelios said. He turned and glanced up at the house. "What about her?"

  Shayma sighed. "We're working on it."

  "We can't use her evidence to convince Kleitos. She's in danger if her kidnappers get wind she's talked to the police," Savva said.

  "But still," Stelios pressed, "she might know something that will help us."

  "Oh, I'm sure she does," Savva said. "But we have a duty to keep her safe. Forcing her to relive her capture might do irreparable harm."

  Stelios put his notebook back in his pocket. "You know best, Sir. I'll head back and see if I can track down Thanos."

  "Make sure he's in plainclothes. I don't want to call any unnecessary attention."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "In fact, tell him to take Kaikas. They're close enough in age to look like a couple."

  "Of course."

  Stelios thanked Savva for the ouzo, bade his farewells to Shayma, and disappeared around the side of the house. Savva yawned.

  "Why don't you go to bed early? You're exhausted," Shayma said, laying a hand on his arm.

  Savva waved her off. "Me miss dinner? Perish the thought."

  "A nap then?"

  Savva pursed his lips and fingered the stiff muscles in his neck. "Alright."

  He swung his legs off the bench and placed his bare feet on the cool grass and felt the damp earth beneath. Shayma stood at the door to the house with a queer look on her face. Not worried per se, but assessing, as though she was determining his ability to protect these women and whether the exhaustion was a sign of his weakness.

  "I'm fine, Woman, stop fretting."

  "You never take naps."

  "The times they are a-changing." Savva slipped past her and made for the peaceful seclusion of the bedroom but Shayma followed.

  "Do you think you'll be able to find the boat? They might have hidden it anywhere. Thanos can't possibly check every boat on the island."

  Savva sat on the edge of the bed. "It's all I have to go on. Anything official will alert Goldstein to what we're doing and, if I'm right that Goldstein has Kleitos in his back pocket, we have to be careful."

  "Do you think Kleitos is involved with this?"

  Savva shook his head. "I think Goldstein has something on him. But Kleitos isn't dumb enough to get involved with human trafficking. I doubt he knows what Goldstein is up to."

  Shayma put her hands on her hips. It was remarkable how much she resembled a saber-tooth tiger. "What's your plan then?"

  "Get Goldstein any way I can. Even if that means having to use the mafía."

  Shayma's eyes popped. "You can't be serious?"

  "Oh, I am. All I have to do is get one of them to make a mistake. One mistake. Goldstein is already operating on his own; outside of their little club. They know it and they aren't happy. The trick will be to force their hand."

  "You know Alexandros, when we got married I told my mother she was wrong, but this time I think you are crazy."

  Savva patted space beside him. Shayma sank down with a sigh. "I'll let you in on a secret," he paused for effect. "All the best people are."

  Shayma poked him in the ribs. "Oh, you ridiculous man."

  Savva scooted across the bed, closed his eyes, and linked his hands over his chest. Shayma unfurled a quilt and laid it over him. Savva propped one eye open. "I'll get him. Anthony Goldstein isn't long for this world."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Shayma was on the couch with a mug of coffee when Savva woke the next morning. Her eyes were fixed on the fireplace with an unwavering stare. He perched on the arm of the couch and touched her knee hesitantly. Had she slept? Had her rest been dogged by nightmares? Were her eyes red from crying or from exhaustion?

  "Stop staring at me," she said.

  "I was looking at the coffee. Any chance of a sip or two?"

  She glared at him out of the corner of her eye and handed over the mug. It was black and was stamped with University of Athens in white letters. "You're off then?"

  Savva nodded. He should ask how she was doing, but the words failed to come and instead he asked her thoughts on Matthias and if she'd overheard anyone in town discussing it. Shayma threw up her hands, 'they know everything and nothing': referencing the way gossip flew like wildfire across the island. There was nothing substantial, which made Shayma think any actual information was nonexistent.

  She walked him to the door and waved him out of the house. "You might try finding the family home."

  Savva nodded. The family home. All this traipsing off to Athens and he'd assumed the Papatonis' had only rented their domicile. He hurried down Mikonou Street, pulling out his phone as he crossed the street. It rang once.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Stelios, do a check for any properties owned by the Papatonis family."

  "It'll take me a few minutes. Can I call you back?

  "I'm on my way to the office."

  Savva stuffed his hands in his pockets and stopped in front of the pale green and white facade of the Church of Ioannis Kalivitis, and its two story entry. The three thin rectangular windows above the door were fitted with ornate black metal guards–giving them the look of monochrome stained glass. The normal sounds of the bustling isl
and were absent, in place the twittering of birds and the rush of the distant sea, was the sound of his breath. As he loitered on the stone walk in front of the church, a man in a skin-tight navy blue shirt and black running shorts breezed past him, lifting one hand in a half wave, as if simply being on the streets before the hoards made them compatriots.

  Savva gave the church a farewell smile and proceeded down the street, coming to a stop at the comparatively drab police headquarters. The empty lobby still smelled like stale piss and the throat-constricting cheap cologne the boys wore these days. He opened the stairwell door and walked down the hallway to his office. Stelios was propped against the lintel like a forgotten ladder–too tall to be of any use whatsoever.

  "I found a house. It was sold when Taras and Matthias moved to Athens, but it looks as though a couple of the old neighbors might still live there. I emailed you the address."

  "Efaristo."

  "Do you want me to come?"

  "No, help Kaikas with the timeline. Call Thanos and tell him to wait a bit on the boats. Call me if you find anything."

  Savva went through to his office, opened his email, and jotted down the address Stelios had sent. Attached to the email was a picture taken at the time of the last sale five years ago. It was a small orange cottage on a half an acre, ten kilometers outside of Mitilini, with only four 'close neighbors.' It reminded Savva of something Conan Doyle’s character had said about how much pain, abuse, and violence lurks in the country, simply because no one was close enough to hear the screams.

  With a shiver, he typed the address into a mapping website, printed out directions, stuffed them in his briefcase, and left the building. The squad room was empty apart from Stelios and Kaikas, who were hunched over their keyboards, furiously typing away. The day had lightened in the time he'd been inside but the world was still colored blue–even the dirt that coated the sides of his Saab. As he drove down familiar streets with unfamiliar graffiti he could hear Minerva chatting away in the backseat. 'What's sarcasm, Papa?' she chirped. Ten different possible definitions ran through his mind, but he couldn't explain. He stumbled over the definition. 'I'll ask Mama. She'll know.'